


there goes my baby!

by liesmyth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Plans Were Made, Gen, Good Omens: Aziraphale and Crowley raise the baby Antichrist, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-04 05:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth
Summary: “You want me to kidnap a baby,” Aziraphale said, incredulous, and Crowley sighed in a burst of static into the payphone.“Yes please, and hurry up. We haven't got much time.”





	there goes my baby!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greygerbil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/gifts).

> With many thanks to [Kazeetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazeetie) for the beta, and to [Isozyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isozyme) for the brainstorming help. Title is, of course, from [Queen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zO6D_BAuYCI).

“You want me to kidnap a baby,” Aziraphale said, incredulous, and Crowley sighed in a burst of static into the payphone. “Yes please, and hurry up. We haven’t much time.”

“I’m not going to kidnap a—”

“He’s not a _real _baby, angel, he’s demonspawn. Satan’s spawn. Not that you’d know it by looking at him.”

A flickering yellow street light cast its unsteady glow on an ancient phone booth somewhere outside of Lower Tadfield, where the prologue of the Armageddon was about to begin. The Antichrist was currently in Crowley’s Bentley, sleeping in his basket. He’d had to park on the side of the road to call Aziraphale, and now he waited impatiently, tapping his foot against the ground. Not for the first time that night, he wished he could use his mobile to call London.

“Look, just—please?” he said. “Just come get him. We can always give him back.”

“Give him—” Aziraphale stuttered. “What, to Satan?”

“Sure, if you want. I can pretend to… recover him from the clutches of my angelic nemesis if I really have to, but if we want to take him we’ve got to do it now_._ Before they hand him off to the Americans.”

“‘We’ don’t want to take him,” said Aziraphale, primly, before the rest of Crowley’s words fully registered. “What do you mean, they’re giving him to the _Americans_? American Satanists, or—?

“The ambassador’s wife is about to have a baby,” Crowley explained. “I’m to take… the Antichrist.” His throat was dry; he swallowed. “And then the nuns are going to switch them, I reckon. Put the little hellraiser in place for the end of the world.”

“The American ambassador,” Aziraphale echoed. Something in his voice suggested that he seemed to find the idea of an American-raised Antichrist to be several orders of magnitude worse than your common-variety homegrown English Antichrist, who’d bring about the Apocalypse but at least be polite about it, maybe with a pause at five in the afternoon for a nice cup of tea. Crowley shook his head, feeling stupidly fond.

“Yeah, the ambassador. Can you imagine? It’s not enough that he’s going to destroy the world, he’ll be all American about it, too.”

“Look,” he went on. “You’ll just be doing your job. I’m going to take the child inside, give him to the nuns, you’re going to take him right back, thwarting accomplished, and then we’ll go to dinner.”

“What, with a baby?”

Crowley was momentarily distracted by the thought of Aziraphale pushing a baby stroller full of Antichrist through the doors at the Ritz.

He coughed back a laugh. “You leave that to me. You just do your bit.”

Aziraphale huffed, loudly, and Crowley grinned to himself.

“Right, I owe you one. Hanging up now. See you there.”

When he hung up, his hand was just barely shaking. He smoothed down his clothes and strolled back into the night, ready to do something unspeakably stupid.

Stealing a baby was far from the strangest request Crowley had made of Aziraphale over the years, truth be told, but it was quite possibly the most dangerous. The baby in question was the Antichrist, after all, and his father… well, the Lord of Hell wasn’t the kind of being one would willingly go against, even an angel imbued with all the righteousness of the Heavens. Especially an angel lacking anything in the flaming weaponry department.

But Crowley had sounded so frantic over the phone, and he did have an endearing habit of coming to Aziraphale’s aid when things got a bit hairy. Aziraphale pushed through his unease, and made his way through the darkened corridors of Tadfield Manor.

Thankfully Satanisists weren’t particularly intimidating nor bright, and Aziraphale managed to make it out unseen plus one sleeping Antichrist before the chattering nuns could take notice of his presence, and presumably talk him to death. His hands were sweating. It wasn’t that he was afraid, not of a blissfully peaceful blonde child, but he was still disrupting the Great Plan, kind of, even if he was doing so by thwarting evil. Morality was complicated, and Aziraphale had gone six thousand years trying to avoid thinking about it too hard.

He breathed out in relief when he finally reached Bentley, where Crowley was waiting looking like a man sat on an anthill. When Aziraphale knocked on the car window, he yelped.

“Bloody _bless _you. You scared me.” He looked down to the child in Aziraphale’s arms and swallowed. “Right, the Antichrist, again. You sure you got the right baby?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Aziraphale primly. “I saw you giving him to that nun. I didn’t take my eyes off him for a second.”

“Right.” Crowley nodded. “Just checking. Bit of a disaster if we’d got the wrong baby, eh? C’mon, jump in.”

Aziraphale did it, sitting awkwardly in the passenger seat with the baby’s basket still in his arms. Crowley rolled his eyes impatiently.

“You’re supposed to put babies in the backseat, you know.”

Aziraphale, who hadn’t known, turned to lay the basket with the Antichrist on a leather seat. “Why?”

“Dunno.” Crowley shrugged. “Never carried babies in my car before. I think it’s for safety?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and then he had the wind knocked out of him when Crowley pressed down on the accelerator and proceeded to speed in a Londonward direction several miles over the speed limit. “Safety,” he managed to croak. “Alright then.”

Tadfield wasn’t really very far from London, especially not when one drove as recklessly as Crowley did, and the trip went by quickly and mostly in silence, except for when the Bentley attempted to play _Crazy Little Thing Called Love_ until Crowley glared at it so fiercely it immediately shut up. The blessed car should learn to take a hint— there was a time and a place to try and set up a mood, and this certainly wasn’t.

They had almost managed to relax when the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, _et cetera_, woke up and began to wail.

The car swerved.

“Bloody Hell—”

“What in Heaven—”

They looked to each other. Then they turned to look at the child.

“Can’t you turn it off?” Aziraphale asked.

“Of course I can’t bloody turn it off, it’s a baby—” Crowley said, then paused. “I mean, I could…” He snapped his fingers, experimentally, and the Antichrist fell asleep.

They looked at each other again.

“We can’t keep him sleeping the whole time, can we?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley shook his head.

“Don’t think so. Hey, don’t you have any… childminding books in that shop of yours?”

“No.”

“You haven’t even checked—”

“Trust me, Crowley, I don’t.”

“Right.” Crowley turned on the ignition again and the Bentley drove on, bringing the radio back to life.

_It cries like a baby in a cradle all night, it swings (ooh, ooh), it jives (ooh, ooh), it shakes all over like a jellyfish._

_I kinda like it_.

Crowley swore under his breath.

The child kept sleeping as they got him out of the car and into the shop, which they both counted as a minor miracle, demonic though it may be. They put the basket on an antique table between two of the less precarious piles of books and stared at the Antichrist inside.

“He doesn’t look very demonic,” Aziraphale said.

“No,” Crowley agreed. “That nun kept saying he looked like his daddy.” He squinted. “I can kind of see it.” The boss, famously, got a lot of mileage out of his deceptive looks, and even nowadays he only appeared properly Satanic when the mood struck him. Crowley’s thoughts wandered in the direction of the child’s other parent, examining the possibilities before coming to a screeching halt.

“I still don’t understand why you needed me to do this,” Aziraphale said

“So I can tell I had nothing to do with the child’s disappearance when they ask. I made my delivery, and that’s it.”

“But couldn’t you—”

“No,” said Crowley. “_No_, I can’t lie to Satan. He’s got ways of finding things out. This is safer, and I bet you could get a commendation out of it if you wanted. I mean, snatching the Antichrist? That’s gotta be—”

“I’m not sure Heaven wanted me to snatch him,” Aziraphale said, slowly. “Gabriel… he looked awfully pleased, you know? Like he just can’t wait for the end of the world.” He looked down to his hands, “I think I shouldn’t have interfered with the Plan.”

“Oh, the Plan’s still going strong,” Crowley mused, then poked the sleepy Antichrist in a chubby cheek. “Look at him, sleeping like a little angel.”

“Honestly, Crowley—”

“Dreaming of fire and brimstone, aren’t you?” he cooed, tapping the boy’s nose. “Now, what shall we do with you?”

The Antichrist, thankfully, didn’t make any more noises. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“What do you mean, what we’re going to do with him? I thought you had a plan!”

“Yeah, getting the child out of the hospital was the plan. Now we’ll need to… I mean, we can’t keep him asleep forever.” And then he said, “Look, can we get something to drink? I know you’ve got the good wine stashed somewhere.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, slowly. “Yes, I can do that.” He looked very much relieved that the absence of wine was one issue he could solve, at least. The bottle shook slightly as Aziraphale poured for both of them.

“Oh no, don’t do that. Just leave the bottle.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, and then he gulped down his glass in one go. Then he took another long sip directly from the bottle.

“Were you thinking…” he began, then swallowed. His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle. “You know?”

Crowley frowned. “What?”

_“You know_.” He made another gesture with his fist, quick and vaguely pornographic. “That.”

Crowley looked slowly from Aziraphale’s hand to his face, then shook his head. “I really don’t think I follow.”

“Him! The child.”

“What about the child?” Crowley asked, and then he understood. “No, no, of course not. Who do you take me for, bloody Ligur? I wouldn’t off a child,” he said. “Besides, he’d just show back in Hell and the whole thing’d start all over again.” He frowned. “Or maybe he’ll go to Heaven, could you imagine that? Oh, Michael would _love it_.”

Michael wasn’t exactly known for her sense of humour. Aziraphale took another sip.

“You’re hoarding the bottle,” Crowley pointed out.

“Oh, go get your own. You know where they are.”

Crowley threw him a long look then stood up, betrayed, and wandered sulkingly in the general direction of Aziraphale’s wine shelf.

“So you don’t want to… dispose of the child,” Aziraphale said when he returned.

“No, of course not. What kind of demon do you think—”

“—And you don’t want him to be placed with those Americans.”

“I mean,” Crowley said. “They want this child to destroy the world. I thought…” Vague concepts went through his mind, that the child should get a fair chance. To grow up properly, not under the watchful eyes of demonic minions and security agents and household staff. Free will and free choice, and wasn’t that what the entire Rebellion had been about?

He didn’t know how to say it. He trailed off and drank some more wine.

“I don’t think you were thinking at all,” Aziraphale said, not unkindly.

“Right, well. You’re not wrong. But listen, it’s all up to him.” He turned to look at the sleeping child on the table, in his basket. “He is _the_ Antichrist. The only one there is. If he dies then there’ll need to be another, but if he doesn’t — once he comes into his powers, either he destroys the Earth, or no one else can do it.”

“No one else,” Aziraphale said. “Really?”

“Well, I mean, a nuclear war might do the trick. But what I’m trying to say is, that boy is it. Hell isn’t going to send up another Antichrist if they don’t like what this one does. So I thought… I thought maybe he should be raised away from…” He made a sweeping hand gesture as ridiculous as any of Aziraphale’s. “All of that stuff, you know?”

“What, and you think you’re the right person for that?” Aziraphale took another gulp. “Demon, I meant. The right demon for the job.”

“‘Course not. I never said I was going to take him.”

“Well, I don’t see any other plans materialising—”

“I don’t know the first thing about children, you know.”

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale said, sincerely. “Well, you said it yourself, we can always give him back.”

Crowley eyed him.

“Angel. You know we can’t really give him back. I can’t exactly stroll into the hospital — or the American Embassy1, and say ‘Whops, wrong baby!’”

“I figured,” Aziraphale said. He drank some more. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

He took another sip, tilting the bottle up high. “Do you think they’ll know by now? Your people.” He shivered a bit. “Satan.”

“Mhk,” said Crowley, considering. “Maybe the nuns will tell Hastur. Or maybe they won’t notice at all.”

“What happens if they do?”

Crowley shrugged. “Boss’ll be _pissed_. Royally. But… well, I did my bit, and they all saw me, so I should— I’ll promise to look for him, of course.” He shrugged once more and drank deeply from his bottle of wine. “I’ll figure something out.”

“So you’re keeping him?”

Crowley looked at the child through narrowed eyes. “He’s not a cat.”

“Oh, you know what I meant.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Yes, I suppose— but I’m going to need some Heavenly influence, of course.”

“Crowley—”

“You said it yourself, I’m a demon. The child is going to need something good in his life, you know. Bit of Heaven, bit of Hell, and maybe he’ll turn out decent.”

Aziraphale knew that he really shouldn’t listen to Crowley as much as he did. If he had, maybe today he would be a better angel. And, if he had, his world would be dreadfully boring, and a much lonelier place.

There was a voice in his mind, slightly tipsy and very confused, musing that perhaps humankind deserved a chance. Maybe the child sent to destroy them ought to be raised somewhere he might learn about kindness and compassion and all those Earth-things that the best of its people seemed to prize so much. Certainly, that wouldn’t interfere with the Plan.

“I suppose,” he said, very slowly. “Well, I’d be failing in my duties if I let you take care of the child alone. Something demonic may happen.”

Crowley looked stunned for a moment, then covered it up drinking a large gulp of wine. “So, we’re keeping him?” he asked. “No returns?”

Aziraphale nodded, slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Crowley couldn’t believe it either, and so they clinked their bottles together and drank some more, staring at the still sleeping Antichrist.

“Probably should make sure he wakes up at some point,” Crowley mused.

“Will he start to cry again?”

“Probably, yes.”

Aziraphale squirmed a bit at the thought, then steadied himself. He might not have any books about children, but even he knew what they needed now.

“That child,” he announced, proudly. “Will need a name.”

Crowley, by the look of him, had forgotten this enormously important step. He frowned. “Oh. Right.”

“We can’t just keep calling him ‘the child’.”

“The Antichrist?” Crowley suggested. “Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Destroyer of—”

“What about William?”

“William.”

“It’s a perfectly good human name. English name,” said Aziraphale, who was still upset thinking about the American ambassador. “Very noble, with a long tradition of—”

“I don’t think he looks like a William.” Crowley thought about it. “What about Christopher?”

“Oh, must you,” said Aziraphale. Crowley flashed him a grin.

“Jealous, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, sounding very much so. “It’s got ‘Christ’ in the name, anyway, so I think we ought to leave it be.”

“Oh. Fair.”

They were both silent for some time.

“Picking names isn’t as easy as humans made it look,” said Aziraphale, who had signed the deed for his shop as Mr Azira Z. Fell.

Crowley, who’d found a first name he liked in the third century and stubbornly stuck with it through three continents and a dozen languages, just shrugged.

“I suppose it depends on the inspiration,” he said. “Do you think he looks like anyone we know? Except— you know,” he added, quickly. “We’re not naming him _that_.”

“Crowley, he’s a newborn baby. If anything, he looks like an egg.”

“Well, we’re not naming him Egg for sure.” Then he fell quiet. “I don’t suppose...”

“No, Crowley.”

Some more time passed. They each finished their bottles, so Crowley went to grab a new one. There were things to do, a whole new genre of books to find, and maybe a crib for the young Antichrist to sleep in, and clothes, and something to take care of that rather unpleasant smell Crowley had begun to smell coming from one of the child’s extremities. But, somehow, he felt that nothing could really begin until they’d found the child his rightful name. After all, be it in Heaven or Hell, a Naming gave purpose.

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale called, and Crowley jumped.

“Nothing. Just… mumbling.”

“Purpose. That’s a good idea.”

“Yeah?” Crowley said. “What d’you want to call him, Frederick the Innocuous?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, slowly. “No, I was thinking… he’s human, isn’t he? Most of him. That’s how he should grow up. And I thought—”

“Adam,” Crowley said and, for some odd reason, found himself smiling. It was like one of those rare moments when everything felt just right. “Well, I suppose it fits.”

“It does, doesn’t it? And you remember him, Crowley, he was such a nice man.”

“We never found out what he did with your sword,” Crowley pointed out.

“Yes, that aside.”

“And he _was_ a bit of a tool, of course. Eve always complained that—”

“I can see that you like the name,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley grinned at him.

“Yeah. Good one.” And then, “I see we have a surprising talent for child-raising already.”

He held out his hand. “Shake on it?”

A thousand years ago, they’d sealed the Arrangement in much the same manner. Aziraphale took the offered hand all the same, warm and familiar, and shook it.

“Right then,” Crowley said. “Seal it with a kiss?”

That hadn’t been in the original Arrangement, coming along bit by bit through the centuries. Aziraphale laughed and shuffled closer, and then, with perfect timing, Adam the Antichrist woke up screaming like the souls of the damned.2

They jumped.

“Right,” Crowley said, very loudly, trying to make himself heard over the cacophony. “Babies books first. Everything after.”

They made a list of all the necessary. A nursery appeared in the back, squeezed in between a dusty storeroom and a closet full of Aziraphale’s old prints. And the night gave way to dawn and the Earth inched closer to the end of days— or, perhaps, to a new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> 1Crowley was well acquainted with the layout of the Embassy, having often indulged in the small thrill of strolling past the Passport Unit and messing with people’s visa applications. Like many other facets of human bureaucracy, it was a familiar piece of Hell on Earth. ↑
> 
> 2Or, as it happened, like a newborn child.↑


End file.
